Amy: A Character Study
by Anonymississippi
Summary: Two-shot, with a self-explanatory title. Amy was a person before she was part of the Shamy. No backstory, or skeletons in her closet, just a little Amy-centric adventure, in which she mulls over what she wants and makes a resolution on New Year's in the snow.
1. Chapter 1

_**Crazy week this week. Needed a break from TSGHC and all the interweaving plot lines. I thought I would be giddy with Shamy feels after the holiday episode, and I was, but this somehow came out instead. I don't own TBBT. Enjoy.**_

* * *

"Not again."

"What's wrong?"

"Another crack in my glasses," Amy said. "Those monkeys are in cahoots with my optician."

"Will you be getting new frames?"

"Yes. I'd rather not risk glass shards in my eyes."

"Wise decision. What is that?"

"Chapstick… why?"

"Because its casing is an unfortunate combination of mauve and glitter. I mistook it for that whale blubber by-product you were so keen on using two years ago."

"There are laws against putting tallow in lip gloss now, Sheldon. And I haven't worn it since you requested I stop. Surely you can grant me a balm with SPF 15."

"But it tints your lips."

"So?"

"I don't like it."

Amy capped the tube and tucked it in her bag. "I'll purchase another brand."

"Thank you. There's simply no need in altering external appearance. I hope you've not been over exposed to Penny. She maintains the notion that appearance defines one's self-worth."

"That's an inappropriate message society relays, certainly," Amy said. They stopped outside of the door to his CalTech office. "But sometimes people want to indulge in vanity. It's not necessarily for anyone other than themselves. Studies show that self-esteem increases can be measured by a release of hormones—"

"It seems like a waste of time."

"It took me no less time to buy tinted lip balm than it would have for me to buy a neutral."

"Regardless, it's nothing you need to concern yourself with. Nor did you need to walk me to my office door. It's nowhere near the biology building."

"I wanted to walk you."

"Why?"

"Oh… well, I wasn't aware I needed a reason—"

"When we start acting without reason, all goes to chaos. Spontaneity is the playground of the absurd."

"But what about 'Anything Can Happen' Thursday?"

"Relegated to once a month precisely for that rationale."

Amy clutched the strap of her cross-shoulder purse and stared at the doorjamb.

"So I'll see you Saturday?"

"As tomorrow is Vintage Video Game night, that would be the case."

"I've decided to go to that cocktail hour with the people from my department. In case you texted me and I was unavailable."

"Why would you subject yourself to the heinous mix of biology, awkward conversation and a smoky piano bar?"

"I'm not _subjecting_ myself to anything. I'm a biologist, I like piano and cocktails, and I'm trying to get to know the people within the department in a social context. It strengthens the relationships in the lab."

Amy watched as Sheldon folded his arms over the mascot of whatever super hero he was sporting that day and shook his head back and forth.

"It's odd that you're trying to meet more people. I think the structure of our social group is more than acceptable. I've been considering cutting Howard just for the sake of numbers."

"Despite the relationship you've built with him?"

"'Relationship' is too generous, Amy. Let's say, frequent interactions."

"Howard is your friend."

"Who I would cut loose for the sake of numbers. Why am I repeating myself?"

"Because you're being ridiculous."

"You're the one intent on reaching out to people for no other reason than to nurture some archaic notion of communal bonding to promote work-place cooperation."

"Maybe I just want to meet new people."

"Since when? You didn't always like people."

"That was before I learned how to interact with them."

"And how did you learn that?"

"Well… through you, somewhat. I'm still working on it, but Penny and Bernadette deserve substantial credit."

"Substandard role models if I've ever seen any."

"How did this become an argument?"

"I'm not arguing," Sheldon insisted, holding his hands up in mock defense. "I'm merely stating a fact: you weren't always so intent on getting to know people personally."

"Does it bother you that I want to know personal things about people? That I'm open to connecting with people on a more… intimate level?"

Sheldon took a step back into his office.

"I need to get back to work."

She nodded.

"Of course, Sheldon. Sorry to keep you."

"I will still see you at six o'clock on Saturday."

_Still_. As if she had done something to him. As if he were seeing her _in spite of_.

Amy didn't tell Sheldon good-bye. Let him think her weird. She plodded down the hall, reviewing their conversation.

There was accusation in his tone that he wouldn't articulate. And piecing it all together, she knew what it was that he was so afraid of.

Because, looking back, she had been a little afraid of it too, when she noticed it. It had been a considerable jump, from there to here, but the distance made it seem small now. So foreign. But it wasn't a spark, not sudden, not the rapid construction of a skyscraper; it was a slow build, that took… what? Three and a half years in the making? Like snow falling that never stopped; drifts building higher and higher until she was on top of a mountain peak, and the world looked so much better at the top. Clear, white and pristine. The landscape was blank canvas.

A new perspective.

But Sheldon stubbornly refused to scale his own mountain, instead cracking his knuckles against the handle of a snow shovel, digging downward so he never had to move from his precious spot. There had been great movement for her, and it was beautiful. There had been significant yet stilted movement for him, despite his best efforts to remain stationary.

But it was exhausting, climbing down to his level only to long for where she had been, and then scaling the drifts to reclaim her progress.

And what did it all come down to? That thing she once feared and Sheldon _still_ feared?

Amy Farrah Fowler had changed.

She pressed the cross bar to the door of the physics hall and walked into a vacant California December. The sun was shining.

Change. No matter what Sheldon said, she was not entirely sure it was a bad thing.

* * *

"—which is when I said, you try sticking a needle up the basilic vein on a Capuchin, then we'll talk hard finds!"

The table erupted in laughter. Sheldon was wrong. Dr. Gunderson was hysterical.

The piano bar was close and warm. Chummy conversation and candle centerpieces gave the illusion of external winter. Patrons behind Amy said 'excuse me', made eye contact, and would pat a hand to a shoulder as they squeezed in between tight tables and chairs. The air was pleasantly heavy without being oppressive; it wasn't humidity, or germs or allergens, as Sheldon might suggest. It was weighted with music and laughter and the golden glow of a good time. Rich red carpets, mahogany tables, and a seven-piece band on stage. Amy and her colleagues rocked as they joked, told stories, shared a few secrets, drank a scotch and vodka martini.

It was one of the most enjoyable evenings Amy had spent outside of her time with the girls or the guys at Los Robles.

The band was on fire. It even rivaled the wedding band of the UCLA department heads she had roped Leonard into attending with her. The pianist was amiable and old school, and had a voice like molten chocolate. He took requests from the audience.

"'She Blinded Me with Science!'" Dr. Santiago shouted.

"A bit outside of my repertoire, 80s electronic pop," he dabbled at a few keys, and the percussionist hit the snare twice and crashed a cymbal. The crowd was rolling.

"Any ladies out there tonight care for a duet?" he asked, an ascending trill tinkling like drops from melting icicles.

"Amy! You should go," Dr. Gunderson said.

"Yeah, Amy. They have a harp up there!"

"What songs do you know?" Santiago pushed.

"You should play with him. He's quite talented," Dr. Burn added.

Amy's cheeks felt like a fireplace.

"No! No, I've never done anything in public."

"You sing in the lab all the time," Santiago said. She started an off-key melody: "_Say what you wanna say, let the results come out, honestly, I wanna see those enzymes!"_

"Do it Amy!"

"Go for it! We're all drunk enough for you to sound wonderful!"

"Amy!"

A nearby table joined the battle cry.

"Amy! Amy! Amy!"

"Looks like we've got a lackluster candidate," the pianist said. "Anybody want to hear Amy give it a go?"

A landslide of hoots and rabbles.

"Gunderson, give me that," Amy said. The rest of the department was buzzing like a centrifuge; she had kept to Shirley Temples. But now, she threw back the rest of Dr. Gunderson's scotch, made a conciliatory bow at her table, and waddled up to the stage with the pianist.

"Ladies and gentleman, a round of applause. She's going to be a good sport!"

"Not just a good sport. I'm playing to win. Can I relieve your harpist for a number?"

"Please do! Gentlemen," and he played a jazzy little interlude as they moved the harp closer to her.

Amy examined the strings and tilted the shoulder toward her body, nestling into someone else's instrument. The soundbox was large and sandy brown, an equilateral triangle that descended into reverberations. It was not alien, but it was not hers. Playing someone else's instrument was a personal thing, for musicians cherished their pieces like pets, or, in some cases, children. She wished to handle it with the respect it deserved.

"Do you know 'What a Wonderful World'?" she asked.

"You're speakin' my language, sweet cheeks."

"Watch the pet names, Sinatra, I've got a boyfriend."

Another double rap and cymbal smack from the drummer, and laughter came back.

Amy smiled and plucked an _F _to start.

She stared at the metal web casing on the mic at her mouth. It hummed aggressively and registered her inhale.

"_I see trees of green…_"

The room quieted as she plucked and softly sang, and the piano tagged along like an enthusiastic puppy after the first verse. It was almost masochistic, this voluntary display. Definitely terrifying, potentially humiliating, but strangely fulfilling.

Why? Endorphin rush.

_Thrum. _

Harp or heart string?

The lights were bright like the overheads of an autopsy. Amy couldn't see much beyond falling harp strings and floorboards. The pianist crooned in harmony during the dark sacred night, and Amy felt the satisfaction of unchecked release for the first time in her memory. The farther away she moved, the more she saw, and a smudge of whitish, brackish green morphed into water lilies, hardy despite their innocence. Stepping back from herself, she was a painting half-complete; or fully complete, but someone or something had the zoom amped up and wouldn't let loose its focus. It was detention, suppression, only being able to view yourself from one angle.

Amy had never been one to take the stage, but the vantage point was so intriguing, it stoked her scientific curiosity. She fed the voyeurism of the bar with a lingering swipe across the strings for her finale. The biology department from CalTech was on its feet whooping, and the rest of the crowd cheered and wolf-whistled while Amy curtsied awkwardly.

There was much talk of experimenting with latent brain wave function in primates after prolonged intervals of tonal exposure by different instruments during the varying stages of REM sleep. Scientists batted proposals back and forth like a shuttlecock. The hypotheses were so outstanding they would never see the desk of the department chair, but it was good fun.

"Amy, you're shaking," Santiago said.

"Guess the tune was a little more rattling than I thought."

"Really, it was great! I got it on my phone. Want me to tag you?"

"No!" Amy said. "It's embarrassing. C'mon Santi."

What she really meant, was that her boyfriend would chide her endlessly for such a performance. And that bothered her. She couldn't even play music in her own car; heaven (or transcendental plane) knows what kind of lecture she'd receive if he saw her on stage.

"I'm going to grab something a little stiffer than these cherry Sprites to settle me. Be right back guys."

She weaved through the tables to the deserted bar at the back. Waitresses came and went with drinks, because the band was the main attraction. Two youngish bartenders leaned against the back counter, swiping at fingerprinted glasses with threadbare rags.

Amy nodded at the brunette behind the bar and the girl came toward her.

"Nice show you had there," she said with an accent. "Great crack you see."

"Excuse me?"

"She means you played well. Good bit of craíc to be had," the other bartender said with a wink.

"Shut it, Joey, it was grand!

"You would know," he said.

"That's right I would. Nice glasses," the girl said, marveling at Amy's new, larger frames. "Can I get yous anything?"

"Surprise me. Just make it quick. I might be having some weird post-traumatic panic attack."

"And you turn to alcohol for your therapy. A woman after my own heart," she said, pouring coffee liqueur into a shot glass. There was another bottle and a fancy maneuver with a spoon, so the shot glass resembled a shrunken version of a dark, creamy beer.

"From my country to yours," she said, inching the glass toward Amy's hand.

Amy threw it back. It was spiky then smooth in her throat, and her tongue tingled with foamy bubbles.

"What was that?"

"Baby Guinness. There's not real Guinness in it, though. And thank God. Your American brew is shite."

"Inferior in every alcoholic standard, we are."

"Feck off, Joey! Feeling any better, miss… what's your name?"

"Amy."

"Amy. You want another?"

"Let's see if my system can handle the one. The jitters have stopped."

"You know, most people get stage fright _before_ they bring the house down, not after."

"What about me strikes you as being like most people?"

It was a joke. Or maybe, a sincere question that she needed answered.

"Heh, not much," she said. "You're the youngest one in here by a decade or so. Well, and ourselves," she said, throwing her head at Joey.

"Piano bars not the sort to draw in a younger crowd?" Amy asked, the warm tingles dancing on her lips.

"Every now and then, for special events and the like. Here, your chaser."

Amy stared at the yellow-golden beer in front of her.

"It's a Harp, Irish brew," the woman said. "Appropriate, eh?"

"I've never heard of it."

"Joey says it tastes like monkey piss, but you can't take his word for it. He's just after getting his Master's and thinks he knows everything."

"Oh really? In which field?"

"Business Administration."

"And he moonlights as a bar tender?"

"Student loans, he says. But he's leaving me, the little dumpling," she sing-songed. "For the mundane world of corporate suits."

"This doesn't taste like monkey urine," Amy said.

"Right!"

"I know what monkey urine tastes like."

"This sounds like the beginning of an excellent conversation…"

Íde Power was a bartender. But she was also, by fortune or kismet or mere probability, a scientist. A geologist in her fourth year of Ph.D. work, Íde supplemented her university stipend with weekend bar shifts where her boyfriend's band played. They weren't on tonight, the club instead opting for the smooth pianoman this holiday season.

"I got him a gig at this resort in the mountains where I do my field work," Íde said.

"San Bernardino?"

"Aye. Our department rents two cabins for us, but he's doing trad carols at some posh spa lodge. Got a harpist in his crew you might enjoy, if you're looking for a getaway over the next few weeks."

"I might check it out."

"You don't have to humor me. It's not my band."

Amy smiled. "I should probably get back to my table." She rose from the stool with a barely drunk beer in hand. "They'll think I've collapsed."

"You'd need about five more of those," Íde joked.

"I probably won't finish the one, but thanks all the same."

"Aye, yeah. Not a problem."

Amy walked back to her table and resumed her evening with the CalTech staff. It was all cheer and rosiness and CNS electrodes and monkey fur. It was fun. And the squirmy, jittery feeling would not subside. Subdued, yes, by the swallows of alcohol. But the thrill of doing something without prior knowledge, without submitting a request two days in advance, and without the necessity of planning ahead was exhilarating.

Amy stared at the lights of LA as Santiago carpooled them to their various destinations. Amy liked planning; the healthy organization that came with beginning a new experiment. The knowledge that she would get to eat at the Cheesecake Factory with Sheldon and see Penny on Tuesdays was comforting. But over-planning smothered her. And she wanted nothing more than to breathe clean, fresh air, untainted by Glade or Febreeze disinfecting products.

* * *

Holidays passed, Christmas came and went without her boyfriend present, and for a moment, she forgot she was breathing artificial air.

Because, for a moment, she knew with a blessed certainty her feelings weren't wholly unreciprocated. But that's the thing about moments; they're quick and fleeting and overlooked in lieu of returns to the status quo. Watching a home birth could rattle the manliest of men, so Sheldon's response should have been expected. _I wished you were there with me_… No. _Instead of me_. But three days back and back he was; back to schedule, back to normal, and her back to balancing on eggshells in every personal matter.

While he was away, she wore tinted Chapstick. Bernadette said she liked it. Amy got complimented on her new glasses, and was tickled by the restlessness of change.

"—and he's got us booked at L'Ermitage for the New Year! We're driving down to the beach at midnight for fireworks," Penny said. "He's a much better gift-giver than I am."

"I hope you know I've wanted your Christmas gift since I was 15, so I'll never complain," Leonard said.

"Sounds better than our plans," Bernadette sighed. "Watching Dick Clark's countdown with Howard's mother wasn't my choice for ringing in the New Year."

"She loves Dick Clark!" Howard said.

"He's dead!"

"We can only hope Ma will follow suit," he joked.

"Rajesh? What about you?" Amy asked.

"Stuart's throwing another party at the comic book store!" he said. "You and Sheldon should come."

"Now, hang on just a minute," Sheldon interrupted, waving a brown-rice laden fork like a wand. "What makes you think Amy or I would enjoy ringing in the New Year with the social rejects of Pasadena at Stuart's store?"

"I'm going to Stuart's store," Raj said.

"I rest my case."

"Fine. Amy, you're welcome to come."

"Thank you Rajesh. But Sheldon, you have no plans for New Year's Eve? It might be fun to do something different."

"Of course I have plans! New Year's Eve is a Tuesday, so I'll get my cheeseburger from the Cheescake Factory—"

"We're closed on New Year's Eve, Sheldon," Penny said.

"Then I'll simply get a barbeque bacon cheeseburger from another establishment that doesn't close its doors on a lower tier holiday."

"I'm going to be with Penny that night. I already told you about it," Leonard said. "I can't drive you to get your burger."

"That's alright. Amy can pick me up."

Amy looked to her left. Sheldon was munching contentedly on his Chinese.

"Would you like to watch the East Coast special that night, Sheldon?" Amy asked. "We can see the ball drop in New York and you wouldn't have to stay up any later than usual."

Sheldon looked up at the ceiling and considered it (which, she conceded, is more than he would have done two years ago).

"Not particularly. The only tradition I maintain for New Year's is to eat purple-hulled peas for good fortune."

"That doesn't seem like a tradition you would stick to. Placing your faith in fortune."

"A Texas tradition, from my MeeMaw to my mother to myself. It's not optional."

So it wasn't really fortune, or fate, or even whimsy. It was tradition. Amy thought tradition and schedules were alike in that they were nicer names for limitation.

"Which reminds me, I'll need you to drive me to the supermarket."

Amy didn't finish her food.

* * *

_**Yeah. I know... What?! Right? I think I was just having so much fun writing adventures for Amelia in "Secondary" that I thought Amy deserved one, too. **_


	2. Chapter 2

_**So I'm also addicted to the "Let it Go" sequence from Frozen, which sort of inspired this whole thing. It's much more apparent in this part of the two-shot, but you don't need to know what that is to read this. I think I'm projecting here and it goes a little OOC. But oh well. I mean, I really love the Shamy, but sometimes I love Amy the *teensiest* bit more. Don't own it. Enjoy!**_

* * *

And Amy did not drive Sheldon to the supermarket on New Year's Eve.

Instead, she Googled weather conditions for the San Bernardino National Forest. Summit temperatures were in the low teens and there was frozen powder on the ground. Amy packed her tights, but rummaged through her closet for more heavy-duty denim and boots. Layers were crucial.

Holiday. Nice resort. She would need something celebration-worthy that could stand up to the ice.

Sweater dress.

"Why would Amy ever need a thing like that? Especially a garment that can't decide what it wants to be," Sheldon had asked on an outing months ago. The pair and Penny had gone shopping for Leonard's birthday, and Penny held the garment up to Amy for fun.

"We live in California, and LA temperatures infrequently plummet to degrees for which an outfit like that might be appropriate. Additionally, it seems rather gaudy."

"Gaudy?" Penny said incredulously. "It has a shiny silver belt buckle and the rest of it is soft knitted fabric. This shouts snow bunny, not slut."

"Doesn't matter. It's impractical."

"Forget about it, Penny. I don't need anything like that."

And Amy didn't need it. But she did want it. Which is why she bought it online the next day, for a conference in Colorado that might never come. Cobalt blue, and the same fabric as her cardigan. Amy liked blue, because Sheldon liked blue. And she was, slowly, coming to terms with a femininity she had suppressed for much of her life. It had started with Bernadette's bridesmaids dresses. Blame Penny or maturity or, that all-encompassing _change_, but she was now understanding the dialectic was faulty: one could be smart _and_ beautiful, with no shame.

Unless one favored tinted lip gloss and had a boyfriend with peculiar tastes.

But for now, she had a dress for New Year's, and was going to take on midnight at the top of a mountain. She called around, and found the resort with the trad band Íde had mentioned.

Not surprisingly, single rooms were available during the holiday.

Also not surprisingly, Sheldon had called twice.

But the kicker, the real surprise, was that Amy lied.

_Under the weather. Staying in because contagious. Will update on condition tomorrow – A._

She booked a room, and drove the 210 east while blaring Neil Diamond the entire way. She hit the mountains and veered north, running into flurries along the way. When Amy was younger, she would cut plain, 8 ½ by 11 sheets of copy paper into snowflakes. She would place them on the blades of her ceiling fan and turn it on, scamping about in a blizzard of her own conjuring. She was cold-natured, hence her cardigans and layers. But she _liked _it. In the warm, the nerve endings became too relaxed. In the cold, you couldn't help but feel. When you stub your toe in cold weather, you know it, because the pain lingers, and even though it hurts, there's joy in the awareness that your body can still feel.

Feeling was never a bad thing.

She cracked her window and stuck her fingers outside, letting the sleet strike her hand.

Amy pulled up to the packed parking lot of Arrowhead Lake Lodge, checked in, found her room, and marveled at the view. Twilight bounced off of creamy mountain ranges sprinkled with evergreens, and the edges of the hazy purple lake were icy and stark. She very much wanted to be cold.

Amy stripped her skirt and pulled jeans over her knit tights, added boots and a coat that dangled to mid-thigh. There was a moth hole at the shoulder, fabric eaten away in its disuse.

The nearby trees bent under the force of the wind and swirling little tornadoes of bone white frost covered the pool area. Other hotel guests huddled near the outdoor bar around a massive fire pit that fizzled with every gust. She wanted less hot air from the patrons and more cold air off the lake.

To battle the breeze, she took her straight hair and weaved it into a simple braid. Amy looped a scarf, added a hat, and yanked on gloves she'd not taken out of her closet since 2003. Blue coat. Black knit accessories and boots. She could blend into the night and bask in the freedom of isolation.

She cinched the overcoat's belt at her waist and made her way outside.

The cold hit her face like a punch. Amy followed the trail down to the waterside and altered her breathing patterns. She blew forcefully through her nostrils once, steamy trails disappearing before fully forming. She snorted as the air liquefied her snot. Amy opened her mouth and the air hit her teeth, burrowing itself down into the roots of her jaw.

There were no waves; the frigid bridge from December to January had iced the lake into bleakness. Ivory lines ran like crinkles in fabric from the ground to the freezing water, and Amy knelt to trace the unique paths as far as her arm would reach. The frozen lake touched the sky in one seamless melding, as if daring a horizon line to fracture what cold had built. The cracks and fractal patterns ran like neuron impulses in a body, streaming signals from finger to finger or from shore to shore. The lake was one big brain, grey and white matter congealed and ready for prodding.

Amy edged out onto the ice.

"Nope. Too early in the season."

Amy found the voice at her left.

"Miss the sign in the dark, didya?" it asked.

"I guess so. No going on the lake?"

"Not yet anyway." An older gentleman with a grey beard and knit cap puffed huge, billowing breaths in the night. It took a moment for Amy to see the spark of orange from the cigarette dangling from his lips; she just thought he had great lung capacity.

"You find yourself as glorified lake security?" she asked, back at the shore.

"Nah, but I'd hate to see a sweet thing like you fall through a false foundation."

"Might be too late for that."

"I'm sorry?"

"Never mind, it's nothing," Amy said. "So, business or pleasure?"

"Bit of both. Booked for the holidays here. Rooms are nice."

"And you can't beat the view."

Stars didn't sparkle on the lake surface, but the frozen shards emitted a sheen like a snowman's sweat.

"Yourself?" he asked. "Business or pleasure?"

"I—" she was going to finish. She was. Right? She could answer why she was here.

_Why was she here?_

"I think I'm having a midlife crisis," Amy joked.

"Much too young for a midlife crisis."

"And a little too old for quarter-life overreactions. Let's meet in the middle and call it a third-life debacle."

"Personal or professional?"

"Personal."

"Family or friends?"

"Significant other."

"Wary of commitment or overly attached?"

"Neither."

"Hmm… well, if you want advice from the grizzled old man on the lake side, I'd say time heals all wounds."

"Can you give me another axiom? It's been over three years."

"Uhm, how about, 'don't bite the hand that feeds you'?"

"But I'm starving."

"Then eat something."

"I'm giving up on the little sayings," Amy's breath poured from her mouth in a heavy exhale, a waterfall of steam. "They presuppose simplicity in a problem."

"How dare those general sayings generalize," the man said. His cheeks were red and round like Santa and his eyes twinkled.

"Yes. How dare they," Amy said, pulling her braid over her shoulder.

"Do you need anymore life advice? I'm about to have to get to work in a bit."

"No, but I thank you for your company."

"If the lake ever stops staring back at you, feel free to come up to the lounge before midnight. We've got a little band in there."

"Oh, do you know Íde?"

The man flicked his cigarette on the ground and blew into his hands.

"Sure thing. Got a mouth on her, that one."

"She sort of invited me. Not really. I only met her once."

"Those Irish. Friendly sort that can connect with no problem. Made you come out all this way, didn't she?"

"Wasn't a far drive but it did… it was spontaneous."

"Well, she might be up tonight to see Jamesy's last show. And you're welcome to come for a listen."

"Thank you."

"Of course." The man turned his shoulders, voice muffled in the wind. "No matter how hard you stare, it's not going to give you the answers you're looking for."

* * *

Amy walked the trail that circled the lakeside for a mile. She was alone now, but far from lonely. And if it took a blast of ice crystals and pine needles to make her realize that she wanted, or… dare she think it?... _deserved_ more, then she would walk the lake until she could no longer feel her toes. Maybe the mountains didn't hold all the answers, like the man said. But there was freedom in her distance from Sheldon.

And in her trek, she did not fear any repercussions from some other person. The perfect girl that she tried to be for him was solidifying into something better, like turbulent waters flash-frozen with liquid nitrogen. It was not flawless, sculpted, or chiseled, but it was beautiful.

Imperfect woman. Amy couldn't be his accommodating scientific princess anymore. She couldn't look over the big things without him giving, just the tiniest tilt of the scale, on the small stuff. She at least needed some acknowledgment, some recognition on his part that he was indeed 'working on it'. Holding onto those words for months was tiresome, and his actions didn't back the statement. It took his roommate revealing a screensaver to even give her hope for the relationship's survival.

But no more.

She was tired of not knowing where she stood, tired of floating in hot, thrashing waters. She wanted frozen foundation, firm footing beneath her. It didn't have to be big, but it had to be stable. It had to be something they could build on, together.

No more shiny trinkets of diamonds or distraction. She didn't need a crown and she wasn't his little princess.

In the cold and whistling wind she had never felt more like a queen.

* * *

Amy was laughing and clapping at five minutes to midnight. In the comfy lounge of the resort, families, couples, and other guests gathered together to celebrate and drink in the New Year. She was in her blue dress, but hadn't taken out her braid. And she saw everything with a new outlook: was it her bold black frames or the resolution she was negotiating within herself?

Like the older man (Waverley was his name, she came to learn) had guessed, Íde had come up for the gig to ring in the New Year with her boyfriend, James. She found Amy almost as soon as she shuffled through the lobby doors, and had her tucked into an overstuffed chair near the rounded, open fireplace for the entire first set. Because, "no way am I fending for myself as the only lady with those divils tonight!"

Íde identified all the instruments from the folk Irish band: her boyfriend, James, on the fiddle, the man who swapped between tin whistle and flute, Waverley, on the Uilleann pipes, a guitarist, a mandolin, a bodhrán, and the small Celtic harp. The carols and folk ballads they sang to the revelers were rousing and melancholy and ancient and thrilling. The harp shuddered and the fiddle mourned the passing of each song, only to revive itself with the start of another tune.

A trio of children darted past with rogue streamers and jostled Amy's hot cider. She'd forgone liquor for the celebration; the atmosphere was high enough.

"Your boyfriend's great," Amy said.

"Don't tell him that, his head's big enough," Íde retorted. She was nursing a hot toddy of her own, and had a pair of 2014 plastic specs set primly on the bridge of her nose. Her blue eyes swam and shimmered in their sockets. "Your one couldn't come up with you?"

"Sorry?"

"Your boyfriend? Busy for the evening, was he?"

"Oh, Sheldon, he…" Amy slurped liquid cinnamon and all spice, ran her fingers along the ridges of the braid and brought it over the front of her shoulder. Another group of kids ran by and a gust of heat from the fire lay on her cheeks.

"He's not much for parties."

"Not at all?" Íde asked, eyebrows inches from the rafters.

"No, he has a thing about…" People? Lodges? Children? Bands? Amy stared at the fire. "…everything."

"His loss then," Íde continued, gathering up a few poppers and paper party horns to mark the countdown. "Boys!" she shouted at the band. The men were hopping down from the small stage, snatching and throwing streamers as the clock inched closer to midnight. "This amazing lady's gentleman friend saw fit to leave her free on the last night the year! We canna have that, can we!?"

"Certainly not."

"A blatant atrocity!"

"Scandalous!"

"The troll!"

Amy found an arm thrown around her shoulder and another around her waist. She had to mentally check herself to _not_ throw an elbow. She peeled them off like an orange skin.

"Gentleman, I don't know whether this is creepy or gallant—"

"Watch yourself boys," Waverley shouted. "Her man might be six feet tall and meaner than a wolverine."

"Well, hopefully we soothed your loneliness with our songs," the man on the tin whistle joked toward Amy. "Though how anyone could feel lonely with that gob yapping—"

"Shut it, Brandon!" Íde smiled good-naturedly.

Brandon's hands were so large and rough Amy wondered how he manipulated the tiny holes on the tin whistle and flute, half-plugged for some notes and an awkward reach for others.

"Daddy, daddy! You have a popper?" A little girl came rushing through the crowd of men and catapulted herself into the flutist's arms. Other children sprouted up like weeds around the band members.

"As if I'd forget! Ready for the countdown?"

She nodded joyfully, wild, reddish curls draped around a chubby face with purple eyeglasses. Brandon picked her up and gave her a popper. The guitarist magicked a bottle of bubbly out of his instrument case, the bodhrán player was doling out Solo cups, and Íde had her tongue down James' throat.

A woman walked up to one band member and slipped her hands around his waist, and cajoled two children jumping on the ottoman in front of him.

"Here we go!" Waverley said at the mic, the only band member still on stage. "Starting at the half minute… and… 30, 29, 28…"

What was she doing here? This was outrageous. Amy didn't know any of these people. Even if not with Sheldon, she should have at least checked out the comic book store party.

"27, 26, 25…"

But she didn't really _like_ comic books. Arguing about plot points was one thing, but going without Sheldon just seemed boring. Hell, going _with_ Sheldon was boring 90% of the time.

"24, 23, 22…"

So much of what Amy did with Sheldon was fun, truly entertaining, a reprieve from what her dull life had been before him. And there were so many other things that they could do, together, if he would just… just…

"21, 20, 19…"

But why did she always have to wait on him? She couldn't pinpoint the exact moment of the change, but she felt like she'd been chasing her tail for nearly two years. Was it so wrong to desire a staircase of progress, an end to the repression? To simply want _more_?

"15, 14, 13…"

When had she lost personal autonomy? Had she ever possessed it, prior to Sheldon? She couldn't go back to what she was before him, but now, because of the _change_, she was curious to know just what she might be without him.

"12, 11, 10…"

He deserved the blame… no, credit. He had done this to her. And Leonard, and Penny, and Bernadette, and Howard, and Rajesh, and Stuart. She could never go back, thanks to him; but she feared that she might never move forward unless he gave.

"7, 6, 5…"

She was going to have to break something beyond mending. Shatter and burst, like a snowball on mountain rock. Amy could break herself, or him, or them, to come out stable on the other side, like durable hexagonal bonds in hard ice cubes.

Because she couldn't conceal it anymore.

She couldn't put on a happy face and _not feel_.

She didn't want to let him go, but she was done with this caution. She would no longer live under the fear of what he might do if she crossed a line.

"3, 2, 1…"

Resolution made.

"HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

Loud bangs and one hollow _pop_ sounded as streamers and champagne rained on her like a wintry mix. Amy blew at her horn and held her cup out to the guitarist for a swallow of the grapey liquid, foam sloshing over her wrist and into someone's hair. That person didn't seem to mind, for Amy suddenly felt a peck on her cheek, followed by another, faces in and out and good wishes and hugs and red plastic at lips and shiny confetti stars in her hair.

The pipes whined as Waverley manipulated them into "Auld Lang Syne," and the band started up the chorus.

"_Should old acquaintance be forgot…_"

"Come'ere you!" Íde planted one right on Amy's lips and chucked confetti in her face. Amy smiled around the room and saw the little ginger girl standing on an ottoman, lip poked out in a pout.

"What's wrong with you?" Amy asked, passing the girl her party horn.

"I don't have anybody to kiss," she said.

"A week ago I would have sympathized, but you know what? That's really not the most important thing."

"What's 'sympathized' mean?"

Amy bent down to the girl's level and pulled blue streamers from her curly mop of hair.

"Here," Amy said, and pointed at her own cheek.

The little girl kissed her, and Amy put a pair of 2014 glasses over the purple frames the girl already wore.

"I like your glasses," the girl said.

"I like yours, too."

* * *

Amy woke at dawn break, rising parallel to the sun. Fresh powder covered the grounds outside the lodge. Not footprints nor tracks nor any sign that the previous year had ever occurred. Clean slate. New Year. Freedom and release from something she never knew had held her back.

Tights, jeans, and calf-high boots again, blue coat over her cardigan. Braid, hat, gloves, scarf. Bags down to the car and a hot pastry for breakfast. She grabbed a go-top for her tea and sipped cautiously as she navigated the path back down to the mountain lake.

Waverley was there again.

"Is that your special spot?" she asked.

"Not my spot, but definitely the best spot. Just look at that." He motioned to the valley.

She looked, and she almost cried.

"I know a guy with a special spot," she said.

"Got a view like this, does he?"

"No, not exactly."

Waverley harrumphed. "You have a good time last night?"

"Yeah… I— I did."

"You sound uncertain."

"I didn't think I was going to. That is, I didn't think I could."

"Forgotten how to have a good time? A sad state, that is."

"Yes. I'm glad I'm out of it."

"You think so?"

"I was raking confetti and streamers out of my hair into the early morning. And Íde got a little handsy there around three…"

"She's a touchy-feely sort."

"Thanks for the warning," Amy said with a snort.

"Better to learn by experience. Which, you seem to have done." He toasted her with his coffee cup.

"I have. Thanks for a great night," she said.

"My pleasure. Have a safe trip back."

"You, too."

Amy took one final view of the mountain. It would be all too easy to stay up here for the duration of the break, days on the trails and nights spent perusing scientific journals by fireside, listening to Waverley and his men play the hours away.

A respite, but a delay.

She was not one for the latter.

Amy didn't take a picture of the view with her phone. It had been off since yesterday anyhow, and she didn't want to taint the memory with technology. Her night of independence, unmarked, unheralded, and free. She switched it on when she got back in the car, and, as expected, was bombarded with messages and missed calls.

She drove back to Pasadena with the window halfway down, hair tendrils and flyaways coming loose from her braid. She lost the hat, scarf, and gloves, but she kept the coat. The night lingered on it like a half-remembered dream.

The traffic around Los Robles at 9:30 on New Year's Day was unremarkable. As was her parking experience, entering the building, and flying up four flights of stairs like a snowflake on the wind. She thumped on the door and gasped for air.

"Amy!"

"Sheldon," she wheezed a bit.

"Have you— are you— wha…"

Sheldon's head tilted crookedly, misaligning his spine like the sharp angle of a rhombus corner. All sorts of emotions trickled over his feature, and Amy was grateful for them.

"How did you… under the— what are you wearing?"

Amy stepped inside, calm voice, simple smile, and shut the door.

"Sheldon, we need to talk."

* * *

FIN.

* * *

_**Yeah, I don't know, me either. I guess I just thought she needed some girl power time. And I didn't really want a resolution for this. It's not as much about them as it is about her. So yeah, flame away. Or review. Just thought Amy deserved a little love on her own, not just in the Los Robles environment. **_


End file.
